


One Man's Junk

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [21]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-28
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-10 01:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5563654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred





	One Man's Junk

Title: One Man’s Junk

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality, Romance, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: NC-17

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Thanks always to my fabulous betas, Merry Amelie and Katbear. Any mistakes are mine.

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess   
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum’s the Word  
Best Laid Plans  
An Apple for Teacher  
What’s for Supper  
Pacifier  
Snow Angels

 

~*~*~*~

“Quinn, *stop*! Stop the car!”

 

Quinn reacted instinctively, braking hard enough to leave skid marks on the asphalt. “*What*? What’s the matter?” He didn’t see anything ahead of them. Nothing on the shoulders. But no, Ben was twisted around, looking back down the road. 

 

“Did we run over something?” Quinn asked, dreading the answer. He hadn’t felt anything under the wheels…

 

“No, no,” Ben muttered absently, practically climbing between the seats to get to the back window. “I- I just thought I saw-” He stuttered to a stop, flushing. “Never mind, it’s… it’s nothing. Go on.” Ben settled back into the passenger seat, looking away. Quinn could see the color rising up the back of his neck, the rigid posture.

 

“Saw what?” he asked curiously, hoping to draw Ben out. Silence. He drove on, a bit slower than before, ready to turn around if the lad gave the slightest indication of wanting to do so. He kept his eyes on the road, but made sure he could still see Ben in his peripheral vision. 

 

Ben fidgeted a bit in his seat, clearly debating with himself. “I- I just thought I saw something that… ah, forget it. It’s nothing.” He shook his head and stared out the window again.

 

That did it. Quinn made a sharp U-turn at the light, blithely ignoring the sign that specifically forbade him doing so, and headed back the way they had come. Ben scowled, but forbore to argue the point. 

 

Good, Quinn thought approvingly. You’re learning. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

He’d never expected it. They were just out for a casual drive in the country on a sunny December afternoon, with no particular destination or agenda in mind. The weather had been miserable the last several days, and both men had had a serious case of cabin fever. But upon awakening to not only sunshine but unseasonably warm temperatures that morning, they had elected to get out of the house for a few hours.

 

Then he’d seen her. The words were out of his mouth before he even knew what was happening. “Quinn, *stop*! Stop the car!”

 

Quinn slammed on the brakes, very nearly putting them both through the windshield. Ben threw off his seatbelt and turned, desperately trying to see out the back window. Then reality set in, and he resumed his seat, feeling the hot flush crawl up his neck. Idiot, he told himself angrily. Could have gotten us both killed! 

 

Predictably, Quinn wouldn’t let it go, but Ben sidestepped his questions and stared blindly at the passing scenery, telling himself he’d only imagined it. When Quinn pressed him, he mumbled something about having maybe seen…

 

And naturally Quinn had made an illegal U-turn and started back down the road in the other direction. Shit, Ben groaned. How the hell am I going to explain this?

 

As they neared the spot, Quinn slowed without speaking, ceding to Ben the choice of whether to proceed. He tried hard not to give in to the temptation, but he couldn’t help himself. He pressed his face to the passenger window, staring in disbelief.

 

There she was. As if she’d been waiting for him his entire life. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

The Jag was barely moving. Annoyed, the driver of the pick-up truck behind them blew his horn and yelled something profane out the window. Quinn made a rude gesture in return, even as he followed Ben’s line of sight. 

 

*That* was what Ben was practically drooling over? Incredulous, he signaled to turn into the driveway of the rundown garage. The truck roared past, its dragging tailpipe striking sparks on the pavement. Good riddance.

 

Ben hesitated about half a second, then swung out of the Jag and made a beeline for the -- to put it mildly -- “distressed” shell that might conceivably at one time have been a car. Rust and prayer were clearly now the only things holding it together. But Ben was hungrily running his hands over the hood, the doors, enthralled. Quinn shrugged, then moved to intercept the grease monkey in the doorway.

 

“Help ya?” the wiry little man said, clutching an oily rag. Quinn hoped he wouldn’t offer to shake hands. 

 

“Not sure, to tell you the truth,” Quinn answered, with a smile. “We were driving by and-”

 

“She yours?” the man interrupted, jerking his chin at the Jag.

 

“… Yes,” Quinn said, nonplussed. How rude.

 

“Beautiful,” the man murmured covetously. “Had her long?”

 

“Yes, for several years, in fact.” Quinn glanced over at Ben, who was all but dissecting the… whatever it was. No help there.

 

“Wouldn’t be interested in selling her, would ya?” 

 

“No, no, I think not, sorry.” What the hell had Ben gotten them into? “Actually, we were just riding by, and my friend there-”

 

“The ‘stang? She’s a beaut, ain’t she? Real old-time muscle car. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore, I can tell ya. You into cars?” The man seemed to sweep Quinn’s tall form in a single glance.

 

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Quinn said politely. He looked over at Ben, who was still on the far side of the rather fearsome rust bucket. “Ben?” The lad reluctantly moved away from his prize.

 

“I’ve loved muscle cars ever since I was a kid,” he said, walking over to them. “Hi. Ben Kensington. She’s what, a ’63? ’64?”

 

“’64, that’s right. Good eye there, young man. Name’s Rick Barton.” 

 

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Barton.”

 

Quinn eased away and watched Ben. The lad’s face was alight with enthusiasm, his manner more animated than Quinn had ever seen him outside the privacy of the bedroom. Over a hunk of junk in a run-down garage side yard. 

 

The mind boggled.

 

~*~*~*~

 

She was even more amazing close up. Oblivious to Quinn’s consternation, Ben circled the chassis, cataloguing every detail. She was the real thing, an original 60’s Mustang convertible. Exactly what he’d been dreaming of his entire life. Sure, she needed a lot of work, but he could imagine the thrill of finding a door here, a tail light there, until she was perfect. Repainted a deep midnight blue, with a black rag top. She was Dulcinea to his Don Quixote. His impossible dream. So what if she looked more like Aldonza right now? Look how that story ended.

 

He was dimly aware of conversation behind him. Then he heard his name called and dragged his attention back to the present. Glancing up, he caught Quinn’s pained request to join him at the garage’s entrance. Beside him was a middle-aged little man in a filthy coverall, a knowing grin on his face. The dragon guarding his captive princess.

 

“You into cars?” the man was asking Quinn. Ben swallowed a grin. Time to rescue his technophobic lover. 

 

“I’ve loved muscle cars since I was a kid,” he said cheerfully, as he approached. “Hi. Ben Kensington. She’s what, a ’63? ’64?”

 

“’64, that’s right. Good eye there, young man. Name’s Rick Barton.” 

 

They chatted about the car’s history for several minutes, while Quinn stood off to one side, outwardly tolerant of Ben’s temporary insanity. For now.

 

“She’s a gem, ain’t she, Ben?” Barton asked. “Make somebody a real dream machine, with a little TLC.”

 

“She sure would,” Ben agreed fervently, ignoring Quinn’s indignant snort behind them. 

 

“Yes, sir, babies like that don’t come around every day, y’know,” the dragon said smugly. “Been a lot of people lookin’ at her.”

 

Quinn glanced at his watch, and Ben figured he’d better not press his luck. “Thanks, Mr. Barton, enjoyed talking with you.” They shook hands. Ben could almost hear Quinn’s groan and resolved to keep his hand in his pocket until they could get somewhere he could wash up. He’d never hear the end of it if he got grease on the Jag’s leather upholstery. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“It’s a piece of shite.”

 

“In *your* eyes,” Ben retorted, unfazed by Quinn’s lack of enthusiasm. “But I see how she *could* be. Restored, fixed up, she’d be amazing! Hell, Quinn, she’s no different from your ‘buried treasures.’ The mantel? The partner’s desk? Even the brownstone. I’ve seen the pictures. They were horrendous, but you saw *beyond* that, and you were right. Well, this is *my* mantel, my brownstone, my “hidden nugget.” Ben’s green eyes glowed with a fanatical fervor. 

 

Quinn shook his head. “What’s he want for it?”

 

Ben’s gaze slid away. “Sixty-five hundred.” 

 

Quinn’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Sixty-five hundred *American* dollars? You’re joking. Ben, it’s sitting in a field of cow pies! Barton’ll have to re-sod to ever have any hope of getting grass to grow there again.”

 

“She’s a collector’s item, Quinn,” Ben insisted. “They’re in demand. Barton could get a lot more than that if he advertised her.”

 

“But he hasn’t, has he?” Quinn countered, ignoring Ben’s persistence in calling the pile of scrap metal “she.” “It’s been sitting out in the open, rusting for God knows how long. It’s been *snowed* on, for God’s sake. Not to mention, the weeds growing up around it. It’s obviously been there quite a while.” He was silent for a few minutes, concentrating on the road. Then, “What’s it worth, realistically?”

 

Ben swallowed hard. “Thousands. He doesn’t know what he’s got.”

 

“In ‘as is’ condition? It’s going to need a metric *ton* of work to even make it street legal.” Quinn drew a deep breath. “What would you be willing to pay? Knowing you’ll still have to invest a lot to ‘restore’ it?”

 

“Are you kidding? I’d pay the sixty-five hundred in a heartbeat. And worry about the cost to refurbish it down the road.” Ben’s chin jutted stubbornly. He was clearly out of his mind.

 

Quinn sighed.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben couldn’t stop thinking about the Mustang. He saw himself driving her down the main campus avenue, deep blue paint job gleaming in the sun, interior freshly reupholstered and chrome shining. He tried to imagine Quinn in the passenger seat, but the thought of those long legs trying to get out of the low-slung chassis made him grin. Well, he could perch on the back with the top down, like a guest of honor on a parade float. And Adele could ride shotgun, with a long silk scarf blowing out behind her like a flag.

 

Sixty-five hundred dollars would buy his dream car. He had it in savings, but it was hard to justify, knowing it would only be the beginning of a true “money pit.” Much as it pained him to admit it, Quinn was right: big bucks would be needed to get it back into condition, especially if he wanted to use only original parts. It would be a labor of love hunting for them on eBay and Craigslist, but the cost would be prohibitive. Not to mention insurance and upkeep. 

 

Fantasy warred with innate pragmatism, and his dreams were troubled and confusing when he fell into bed that night.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Adele fought the impulse to laugh out loud at Quinn’s consternation.

 

“I am afraid he has the best of you, mon coeur,” she said. “He has found his Holy Grail. Can you deny him the pleasure of making something of it?”

 

“Of course not,” Quinn replied, recalling Ben running his hands over the rusted chassis. He should probably insist on a tetanus shot. “If he wants the piece of garbage that badly, I’ll get it for him. I just hope he knows what he’s getting himself into. He could be facing some real disappointment.”

 

“He is a grown man, cheri,” Adele reminded him, “not a child clamoring for a toy. He knows what will be involved. Your job is to get it for him at the best price. Your forte, n’est-ce pas? You will be a hero in his eyes. How can you resist?” Her smile confirmed he was totally and completely outvoted, and might as well succumb to the inevitable.

 

“Eh bien, jolie.” He sighed. “Why do I try to fight either of you, much less the two of you together? Just don’t ask me to take you out there. I won’t be responsible for you breaking an ankle in those damned heels.” He ignored her pout. “Besides, I don’t want Barton thinking I’m interested.”

 

“But surely we could just happen by after hours,” Adele cajoled. “We can take my car. After all, you will want to inspect it for yourself, in order to marshal your talking points. And we can go when the shop is closed.”

 

Quinn considered. “I would like to see the VIN,” he said thoughtfully.

 

“The vin?” Adele asked, brightening. “There is a winery also? Allons-y!”

 

“No, dear,” chuckled Quinn. “The *VIN*, the Vehicle Identification Number. To check its history, and to be sure it’s got a clear title.”

 

“Ah, oui.” Adele nodded sagely. 

 

Well, he supposed he was committed now. Personal aversion to the vehicle notwithstanding, he’d get it for Ben at the best price, and enjoy himself in the process. Bargaining was his meat and drink, and he had an excellent track record. And now he had a target at which to aim. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

As luck would have it, Ben had to work the following Sunday afternoon, so their usual weekend activities were cut short. As soon as he left, Quinn rang up Adele and they drove her Peugeot to Barton’s Garage. The shop was deserted. The Mustang still sat in the adjacent field, looking even more dilapidated than Quinn remembered. 

 

“Wait here, jolie,” Quinn instructed, as he pulled into the gravel driveway. “Keep an eye out for a little bald man with very dirty hands and even dirtier coveralls. I think he lives in the house next door.” 

 

“Bien sur,” Adele assured him. “I shall beep the horn if anyone approaches. Enjoy yourself.”

 

Quinn rolled his eyes. “Somehow, I doubt it,” he muttered, as he walked away. 

 

Adele wisely said nothing. She was all too familiar with her cohort-in-crime’s mental preparations for battle. She watched as Quinn strode purposefully around the corroded car, scowling in disgust, lips moving as he cataloged each and every would-be defect. Adele noticed he took care to avoid actually *touching* the chassis, and reached for her smart phone. This was a picture not to be missed: dapper Quinn Donovan in knee-high weeds, dissecting a rusted-out Mustang chassis while navigating a minefield of melting snow and excrements bovins. 

 

Twenty minutes later, Quinn returned, chuckling darkly about “ammunition.” 

 

She didn’t ask. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn’s mood was much improved following an excellent lunch. While he had no intention of paying sixty-five hundred for the car, if he could get it for a decent price, he’d enjoy Ben’s pleasure in it. He had little interest in the machine itself, but Adele had the right of it: the thrill of the hunt was a siren call in his blood, whatever the prey. And if this was what Ben wanted, then he would have it. 

 

He purchased a muscle car magazine on the way home. As Adele would say, “La connaissance est le pouvoir.” And, to his surprise, Ben was right: a vintage Mustang convertible, in any condition, was a hot-ticket item among car enthusiasts. Barton could have commanded a much higher price; so why hadn’t he?

 

Some on-line snooping of local property records suggested the garage was in less than desirable financial shape. Barton had been late paying his taxes the past couple of years. So he probably needed money. 

 

A friend at the DMV who owed him a favor or three confirmed a clean title on the car. His curiosity as to why Quinn would be interested in a rusted out wreck of a Mustang was skillfully avoided. 

 

Like a general behind the lines, he began to map out his battle plan. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben pulled his passbook from his desk drawer. Quinn thought he was crazy, but he just couldn’t get that Mustang out of his head. He loved going to car shows, talking to equally fanatical owners, dreaming of his own masterpiece center stage one day. So what if he’d probably be on Medicare before she was ready to go public? 

 

Booting up his laptop, he trolled the car sites. There were before-and-after pictures galore. Maybe nothing quite as beat up as his, but some came pretty darned close. 

 

He pulled up Google Maps and homed in on Barton’s shop. Studying the car’s framework from every angle, he made notes on what would definitely need to be replaced, versus what could potentially be salvaged. God, how he wanted her. She spoke to him. 

 

Sixty-five hundred would liberate his captive princess. Pride wouldn’t let him ask Quinn’s help negotiating the price. And someone could come along and snatch her right out from under him if he didn’t act. Besides, Quinn thought she was a piece of crap. Well, he’d eat his words once he saw her all fixed up. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Haggling was art over science, Quinn reminded himself, as he listened to the mechanic extoll the beauty, the myriad virtues of the broken-down vehicle.

 

“She’s an antique!” Barton exclaimed, running a loving hand over the hood. “This little gem has history. Hell’s bells, Mr. Donovan, she *is* history! How can you expect me to let her go for what you’re offering? Why, it breaks my heart to think about parting with her at all!”

 

“Yes, of course, I understand,” Quinn commiserated, looking pointedly at the clean patch Barton’s hand left in the dirt on the “little gem’s” hood. The little man uneasily wiped his hand on his grease-stained coveralls. “I can see you’re unwilling to part with… uh, her. Ah well, it was worth a try. I suppose I’ll just have to go with the other vehicle my lad had his eye on. It wasn’t as… elegant… as this machine, to be sure, but one must sometimes make allowances. Good day to you, Mr. Barton, and thank you for your time.” He turned and started for the driveway.

 

The anticipated reaction wasn’t long in coming. “Now hang on, Mr. Donovan, I didn’t say I wouldn’t let ‘er go, but she’s worth more than what you’re offering. She’s a boy’s wet dream.” The little man intercepted him just as Quinn reached the Jag. “Yer kid’d have a great time fixing ‘er up and taking his girlfriends to the drive-in. She’s pure date bait on wheels.”

 

Quinn inwardly winced at the crude sexual references, but carefully didn’t let his distaste show. Interesting that Barton either assumed Ben was a lot younger than he was, or that Quinn was buying the car for someone else. Contenting himself with a mild frown, he slowly turned and regarded the nervously smiling mechanic. A thin layer of sweat gleamed on Barton’s forehead. Quinn mentally rolled up his sleeves.

 

Game on.

 

“My young fool won’t be going anywhere near that deathtrap until it has been fumigated and thoroughly deloused, Mr. Barton,” he said firmly. “And even then it will need months, if not years of work to even make it street legal. No doubt at *my* expense. We’d both be better off dumping it on some unsuspecting scrap metal dealer.” He gave a world-weary sigh. “However, I am not an unreasonable man. I will give you twenty-seven-fifty, out of the love and affection I bear my lad.” He leaned against the Jag, arms crossed, outwardly indifferent. 

 

Dangle the right size carrot and even the most obstinate mule will walk.

 

Barton scratched the back of his nearly hairless head, then looked over at the Mustang. As if on cue, it seemed to shudder slightly and settle further into the tall weeds. “Thirty-seven-fifty’s the best I can do for ya, Mr. Donovan,” he said reluctantly. “And yer stealing ‘er from me at that.”

 

The ball was circling the hole. Quinn dropped his head onto his chest for a long moment, then slowly pulled his wallet from his jacket pocket, opening it just enough to reveal the crisp greenbacks inside. “Thirty-two-fifty, cash, contingent upon proof of a clear title. *Today*.” His tone clearly said take it or leave it.

 

“Done!” Barton said, extending a grease-covered hand. “Ya won’t regret it, Mr. Donovan. Yer boy’s a lucky kid.”

 

“Thank you,” Quinn nodded, grateful for the new box of wet wipes in the glove compartment. That gunk would never come off the Jag’s steering wheel without professional intervention. He slowly counted out the requisite number of hundred dollar bills, brought along for precisely that purpose, and Barton’s eyes gleamed in the afternoon sunlight. “The title and a proper sales receipt, if you please, Mr. Barton. Then we can conclude our business and make arrangements for the car to be picked up.”

 

“C’mon inside, and I’ll get it for ya,” Barton said, stuffing the wad of bills in his pocket. “We can finish up over at the house. My wife has a big ole crock of fresh buttermilk, and she was just takin’ an apple pie outta the oven when ya pulled in. Blamed hot out here, ain’t it? Never know it was January.” 

 

The sweat on the little man’s brow wasn’t from the weather. “It is a bit warm,” Quinn agreed politely, falling in step with the mechanic. Trading always gave him a mighty thirst, and he could afford to let Barton have his bit of hospitality. The deal had gone even better than he’d hoped, and he hadn’t even had to use his secret weapon. He could hardly wait to see the look on Ben’s face.

 

After forcing down two slices of pie and a huge glass of buttermilk, Quinn was more than ready to return home. Barton walked him to his car. 

 

“Thanks again, Mr. Barton, and please thank your wife for the pie. I can’t remember tasting anything quite like it.” He opened the driver’s side door, then added casually, “By the way, that’s a prize-winning crop of Cannabis ruderalis in your field. You might want to do something about it before the car is picked up. Someone might be tempted to call the authorities.”

 

“Can of what?” 

 

“Cannabis ruderalis. Marijuana.” Quinn gestured in the direction of the Mustang. “I’d be surprised if you haven’t had a few trespassers from the local high school over the years.” 

 

Barton visibly paled. “You a narc?”

 

Quinn smiled. “No, Mr. Barton. I’m a biology teacher.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Oh, Quinn, c’est incroyable!” Adele enthused. “When will you tell him? I want to be there to see his face! Ben will be so excited!”

 

Quinn beamed. “Doug’s bringing it to his shop tomorrow morning. At a minimum, the thing needs to be disinfected, get all the bugs and wee beasties out of it. Then I need to find the perfect moment. Maybe this weekend. I’ll tell him the Jag needs servicing.”

 

“Perfect! He will have no idea. You are a master negotiator; I have always said so. The poor man never stood a chance.” 

 

He felt like strutting in that moment, but settled for her warm congratulatory hug. It gladdened his heart for them to be once again on the same side. 

 

Caught up in their big plans for Ben’s surprise, neither heard the office door softly close behind them.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben hurried back down the stairs from Adele’s office, trying to convince himself he had *not* just seen her in Quinn’s arms. It had clearly been a very personal and private moment between the two. The old paranoia roiled inside him, even as his common sense told him to step back and take stock. Quinn was owed that much, at least. Adele, too.

 

But they had just seemed so… lost in each other, locked in an intimate embrace. He’d heard her happy squeal just as he had opened the door, something about being “so excited,” and Quinn had looked as if he’d just been awarded the Nobel Prize for botany. 

 

It was going to be a very long day.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn whistled as he walked back to his office. He could hardly wait to see the look on Ben’s face when he found out about the car. He himself had little or no interest in the rattletrap, but if it gave his lad pleasure, then he’d humor him. After all, Ben was incredibly tolerant of his own obsessions over antiques and the like. 

 

As his old Da used to say, one man’s junk was another man’s treasure.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben kept seeing Quinn and Adele in each other’s arms. They’d looked so cozy, so… blissfully happy. Had he just been kidding himself all this time, believing that Quinn-

 

No, he *knew* better. Quinn loved him. And Adele had made it clear from the beginning that she was thrilled he and Quinn had gotten together. 

 

So what the hell had just happened?

 

~*~*~*~

 

A familiar mottled tan envelope was waiting in his mailbox when Ben got home Thursday evening. He had to restrain himself from tearing it up right there in the foyer. 

 

Instead, he fixed dinner, watched some TV and looked at every other piece of mail, even the junk. Finally, he reached for the letter opener and withdrew the single folded sheet of note paper.

 

Dear Ben,

 

Looking forward, as always, to seeing you Friday night. Thinking of doing  
steaks on the grill, if the weather holds. Sound good?

 

The Jag’s running a wee bit rough, and my mechanic says he can look at it  
Saturday morning, but I may have to leave it until Monday. Hope you  
won’t mind staying homebound for the weekend. I’ll make it up to you.

 

All my love, Quinn

 

It was classic Quinn, even the bit about the Jag. Ordinarily, Ben wouldn’t have a problem with them being “homebound.” But he worried now whether he’d be able to keep quiet about what he’d seen in Adele’s office. Did he even want to know? 

 

Speaking of cars… 

 

He opened his laptop. He’d made up his mind. He was going to call Barton and buy his Mustang. Quinn would tell him he was a fool to pay the asking price, but he didn’t care. He wanted her. He pulled up the shop on Google Maps-

 

She was gone. *Damn* it! He *knew* he shouldn’t have waited! His dream machine, and he’d let her get away. It was all Quinn’s fault, for trying to talk him out of it. He was tempted to call him up and tell him so, but stopped himself halfway through dialing the number. 

 

Tomorrow night would be soon enough. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn glanced at the clock on the mantel. Ben was late, and he hadn’t called. The note had been a formality; they routinely spent their weekends together now. Best part of the week, for both of them.

 

Looking out the window, he was relieved to see Ben walking slowly down the sidewalk from the bus stop, head ducked against the wind, hands jammed in his jacket pockets. Quinn opened the front door. “Come on in and get warm, Ben. It’s a brae breeze out.” 

 

Ben trotted up the steps. “Hi,” he said, unzipping his jacket as he stepped inside. Almost as an afterthought, he leaned up to meet Quinn’s kiss. “Feels good in here. Guess winter’s still with us, huh?”

 

“Appears so,” Quinn agreed. “Go warm yourself by the fire. I got some beautiful rib-eyes. Hope you brought your appetite.”

 

“Great,” Ben said, moving into the living room. He bent to scratch Bernini behind the ears, then held out his hands to the flames. His manner was subdued, and Quinn wondered what might be bothering him. 

 

“Something to drink?” he offered. “Beer? Tea?” 

 

“No, thanks. You go ahead,” Ben answered, not turning from the fire.

 

“Tough week?” 

 

Ben shrugged. “No more than usual. You?”

 

“The same.” The lad seemed disinclined to make conversation, so Quinn headed for the kitchen to finish fixing dinner.

 

Ben joined him a few minutes later, still oddly detached. Quinn felt like a goldfish in a bowl. He held up the platter of steaks and Ben nodded approval, then silently moved aside so Quinn could head out to the big propane grill on the back porch. It was the latest addition to the brownstone; they’d shopped together for it. 

 

When he returned, Ben had set the table and brought out the salad and dressing, along with a bottle of red wine. “Let’s eat before they get cold,” Quinn urged, gesturing Ben to his seat. “I left yours on a wee bit longer than mine. Hope it’s cooked enough for you.” Quinn ate his meat blood-rare, but recognized that most people preferred it at least warm all the way through. 

 

“It looks great,” Ben said, cutting into the steak. There was a hint of a smile, and Quinn grinned.

 

“Thank the Lord you don’t like it well done, or we’d have to part company, laddie,” he teased, then faltered at the stricken look on Ben’s face. “I was but *jokin’*, Ben! What’s wrong, lad? You’re as deadly as the grave tonight.”

 

Ben ducked his head, toying with his salad. “I’m fine. Everything’s delicious.” All evidence to the contrary.

 

“We’ll make an early night of it. You should have said something.” Quinn hesitated, then, “Or would you rather I drive you back to your apartment after dinner? You don’t have to stay if you don’t feel like it. I’ll not think any the less of you-”

 

“*No*!” Ben cried, then, “I mean, no, of course I want to be here. I just… oh hell, I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m just… not myself tonight. I’ll be okay in the morning. Please, I- I want to stay.”

 

Quinn rose and came around to stand behind Ben’s chair. “Of course you can stop over,” he said soothingly. “You’re always welcome, you know that. But if something’s gnawing at you, I wish you’d let me help.”

 

Ben leaned back, resting his head against Quinn’s shirtfront. His eyes were closed, and Quinn suspected he had a headache. He gently massaged Ben’s temples, humming softly, and was relieved to feel a bit of the tension easing. “Leave the steak if you don’t want it,” he said softly.

 

“No, I *do* want it,” Ben said, sitting up and determinedly picking up his knife and fork. He cut an oversized bite and shoved it in, chewing fiercely. “It’s delicious,” he mumbled, around a mouthful of rib-eye.

 

“Keep going like that and you’re going to choke on it,” Quinn chided, returning to his seat. 

 

Ben swallowed and laid down his utensils. “Shit.” The green eyes were troubled. “Can we start over? Maybe I should go outside and come back in again.”

 

“If you like,” Quinn said. “But I’m thinking it might be better to just finish dinner and go to bed. Perhaps a brandy, first.” He picked up his wine glass. “We’ll get a good night’s sleep and tomorrow will be better, you’ll see.”

 

“Did you say the Jag needed to go in the shop in the morning?”

 

Quinn nodded. “Adele’s going to meet us there. Then the three of us can go out to lunch, my treat.”

 

Ben visibly stiffened, but said only, “Sounds good.” 

 

They finished dinner in near silence. Ben insisted on cleaning up, and Quinn withdrew to the living room to fix them each a brandy. He still couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong, but a good night’s sleep and the surprise waiting at the garage would surely put things to rights. 

 

He hoped.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben loaded the dishwasher and wiped down the stove and countertops, stalling as long as he could, trying to compose himself. He knew Quinn suspected something, but he wasn’t ready for a confrontation. He’d almost cancelled altogether, but finally convinced himself he needed to show up. Then Quinn had seemed so normal at dinner, even concerned for Ben’s well-being. But when he’d offered to drive him home, Ben had gotten rattled. The weekends were their only real time together. 

 

But now they were having lunch with Adele tomorrow. The three of them. In public, so there wouldn’t be a big scene when the hammer fell. Ben felt sick to his stomach. He *should* have stayed home. He could still call a cab, he thought, reaching for his cell phone-

 

“Ben?” Quinn called from the living room. “Leave it, love. We can clean up in the morning. The fire’s nice and warm, and I’m missing you next to me.” 

 

“Be right there,” Ben answered, returning the phone to its belt pouch. “Save me a seat.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn set the snifters on the coffee table and stirred up the fire. Bernini grunted appreciatively from his bed next to the hearth. “Ye bloody parasite,” Quinn muttered. The dog responded with a brief show of teeth, mocking his master’s friendly insult. 

 

Returning to the sofa, he sipped his brandy and reviewed his plans for the following day. His mechanic had towed the Mustang in from Barton’s Thursday morning, promising to give it a good going over. Doug had raved over the hunk of junk, even offering to make a service bay available for Ben’s use. The two would probably end up bonding over the rusted hulk. Adele had contributed a gift subscription to the muscle-car magazine Quinn had used for his research. She’d teased him mercilessly over the picture she’d taken of him in the weeds, threatening to post it on the campus’ website if he didn’t let her be there for the big unveiling. The vixen.

 

When Ben failed to appear, he called down the hallway to leave the clean-up until morning. Ben replied that he was almost done, so Quinn sat back and forced himself to relax. He’d just have to respect Ben’s privacy, until he was ready to talk. 

 

The lad finally wandered into the living room, and Quinn patted the sofa cushion in invitation. Ben’s hands were cold from the kitchen tap, and he chafed them in his, until Ben pulled away and reached for his snifter. He eased back into Quinn’s loose embrace and they sat in silence, watching the flickering patterns in the fireplace. 

 

Quinn lightly stroked Ben’s hair, enjoying the golden highlights cast by the flames. “I love you,” he said softly, clinking his glass to Ben’s.

 

“Love you, too,” Ben murmured, then sipped his brandy. “This is new, isn’t it?”

 

Quinn nodded. “Adele recommended it. If you like it, we’ll get some more.” Again, there was that curious stillness, then a conscious effort to relax. “What is it, Ben? You’ve hardly said more than a dozen words since you got here. Are you coming down with something?” He kept his tone light, not wanting to push.

 

“Maybe.” Ben sighed. “I guess I’m just tired. It’s not the company,” he added quickly, and Quinn smiled.

 

“Of course not,” he agreed. “But you don’t have to pretend for my sake, love. If you’re not feeling well, perhaps you’d like to just take a shower and go to bed. I’ve a bit of paperwork to finish up down here, and then I’ll be up straightaway.” Maybe a bit of space would ease the curious tension.

 

“I’d rather stay down here with you,” Ben said diffidently. “If that’s okay.”

 

“Certainly,” Quinn affirmed. “I’d prefer that, too.” He gently tugged and Ben slid closer. “My bonny wee love.” 

 

“You make me sound like a baby,” Ben complained. “Enjoy contributing to the delinquency, do you?”

 

Quinn frowned. “You’re no infant, Ben, far from it. I’m sorry if I offended. I’ll try to remember-”

 

“*Quit* it,” Ben retorted. “Stop walking on eggshells, damn it. Can’t a guy make a joke around here?” He sat up and took a large swallow of his brandy, then moved away.

 

What the hell? “As you wish,” Quinn said stiffly, setting down his own glass. “But if something’s troubling you, I wish you’d get it out in the open. I’ve no desire to take up your valuable time if you’ve no wish to be here.”

 

Ben slowly turned to face him. His green eyes were haunted. “I’m sorry, Quinn. I just… Maybe it was a bad idea to come over tonight. I don’t want to fight. Can we just finish our drinks and go to bed? And I’ll… I’ll go home in the morning.”

 

Quinn swallowed his disappointment. He didn’t *have* to surprise Ben with the car tomorrow. It wasn’t as if it would just up and vanish like Cinderella’s pumpkin coach. “If you wish,” he said quietly. “But you know you’re welcome to stay, Ben. I want you to feel at home here.” Ben nodded unhappily. “What do you say we go upstairs and I’ll give you a back rub, get all the kinks out. You’ll sleep better for it and wake up a new man.” He paused, then added, “And if you still want to go back home tomorrow morning, I’ll take you myself, on the way to the garage to drop off the Jag.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn was trying, Ben realized. He even acted as if nothing was going on. *Had* it been all his imagination? No, damn it, he’d seen Adele in Quinn’s arms, their faces inches apart. Just like the picture on the end table, the two of them in a loving embrace, looking so… *right* together. The perfect couple. He reached out and touched the silver frame on the end table.

 

“She’s so beautiful,” he said softly. Quinn called her a vixen. More like a viper. A spellbinding snake in the grass, slithering between them, all the while telling him how good *he* was for Quinn. Ben glared at the picture, which seemed to mock him in the glow of the firelight. 

 

“I can’t imagine how empty my life would have been these last several years without her,” Quinn said. He tugged gently and Ben allowed himself to be turned. “Any more than I want to think of you not in my life now.” His tone and his gaze were affectionate, and Ben leaned in for a hard kiss, suddenly desperate to touch, to claim. To *own*…

 

A second’s surprise, then Quinn’s mouth opened under his, tongue twining around Ben’s in a sensuous dance that left them both breathless. Quinn leaned back against the arm of the sofa and Ben followed, cupping his head in both hands, devouring, demanding submission, and the older man responded. Ben nipped and licked the tender skin along Quinn’s under jaw, glorying in the throaty moans, the hands that scrabbled for purchase along his back, pulling his shirt free of his jeans to caress the smooth skin underneath, then cupped his ass to drag him close.

 

“Ben,” Quinn gasped, “my bonny love…”

 

“Yes,” Ben muttered, fumbling with Quinn’s shirt buttons. “Yours. Mine. Love you. Want you, want this, *need* you…”

 

Quinn’s hand groped for the back of the sofa, trying to steady them. “I’m here, love. I’m with you.” He moaned again, as Ben deliberately targeted a particularly sensitive spot. “Oh, shite, Ben, dinna stop, or I might hae to hurt ye.”

 

Blue eyes glassy with passion. Lips swollen from Ben’s kisses. Shirt unbuttoned nearly to the waist, framing the strong chest. Flat stomach above tenting trousers. Quinn had never looked more desirable than in that moment. And Ben wasn’t giving him up without a fight. 

 

He tweaked the mahogany nipples and Quinn whimpered, arching upward. His right leg was planted on the antique carpet, otherwise they’d have fallen off the sofa by now. Probably wasn’t doing his bad knee much good. Served him right.

 

Ben slid to the floor and attacked Quinn’s leather belt. Quinn was panting, and the harsh sound was music to Ben’s ears. He raked his fingernails down Quinn’s sides, feeling him flinch. A tickle to his navel produced a weak chuckle, even as Quinn’s hands reached to find him and were batted away. *He* was in control, and Quinn was going to have to just lie there and take it.

 

Ben roughly unzipped the trousers and freed Quinn’s penis, red and swollen and hot to the touch, already leaking pre-cum. God, it was a thing of beauty. He wrapped his fingers around it, and heard Quinn moan his name again. He sounded as if he was in pain, but in that moment, Ben didn’t care. He needed to harness, to control the power that was Quinn Donovan, to brand him as his own. To burn this night into his memory. A sideways glance at the framed photograph hardened his resolve. Adele had had every opportunity to make Quinn hers. Seeing the petite Parisienne in Quinn’s arms in her office Wednesday morning had only reaffirmed their intimate connection, no matter how many times Quinn insisted they were just good friends. 

 

Well, Ben wasn’t giving him up. Nor was he going to wake up tomorrow morning regretting his own lack of action. All his life, he’d repressed his own needs and wants, allowed others to dictate his actions. Owen had bullied him growing up. Garth had intimidated him, then assaulted him in a dark alley. Dean Winters and Xandra Criton had gone out of their way to make him feel inadequate, and he’d allowed it. Even Quinn himself… 

 

Not tonight.

 

Quinn was going to remember this night for the rest of his life.

 

He drew the turgid organ into his mouth, feeling Quinn’s hips surge upward. Using both hands to pin him down, he began to slide up and down the prodigious length, wetting it thoroughly with his saliva. Quinn was practically incoherent, gripping the back of the couch, free hand tangled in Ben’s hair. Ben tolerated it, only because he needed both hands to keep Quinn still otherwise. His own cock strained inside his briefs, but he ignored it, concentrating on driving Quinn insane with desire. 

 

“Ben,” Quinn was moaning. “Please, love, you’re killin’ me. Need ye, want ye now... *Please*…” 

 

Ben felt the climax hit a split second before he tasted it, and pulled back just enough to keep from choking. The bitter taste mingled with the brandy, and he swallowed quickly, reveling in his success. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he sneered at the framed portrait. Bet *you* never made him come like that, he thought triumphantly. You can’t have him, damn it. He’s mine! 

 

“Ben,” Quinn gasped, struggling to sit up. “What the hell was that?” He stared down at his chest, where scratches from Ben’s fingernails had left reddened trails. “Did I die? Feels like I must have.” He swung his other leg to the floor, but made no attempt to rise.

 

Ben smiled thinly and pulled his head down for a long kiss, letting Quinn taste himself. “Not in a million years,” he said. “And I’m not done with you yet.”

 

Quinn’s hand shook as he mopped his brow with his handkerchief. “Shite, one minute ye’re a near stranger, then ye all but rape me.” There was a hungry glitter in the cerulean eyes.

 

“You bragging or complaining?” Ben asked sweetly, rising to his feet. His own arousal was at Quinn’s eye level, and he jutted his hips forward in frank invitation. 

 

Quinn blinked. Then he yanked Ben between his knees, nuzzling his groin through his jeans. Ben hissed as the rough cloth scraped against his penis right through his briefs, and he braced himself on Quinn’s shoulders. He couldn’t hold back a groan as Quinn grasped him and roughly squeezed. 

 

“Watch yourself, boyo,” growled Quinn, studying Ben’s groin as if it were a new biology specimen. “Two can play that game.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Ben taunted. “Sure you’re up to it, old man? I wouldn’t want you keeling over on me. It’d be a real bitch to explain to the coroner.” He knew he was playing with fire, but he didn’t care. This might be the last night he and Quinn had together, and he was going to make the most of it.

 

“We canna hae that now, can we?” Quinn said, voice dangerously soft. “Mayhap it’d be better if neither of us was around to tell him anything. We could just kill each other off and die happy. Let ‘em think whatever they like when they find us in the mornin’.” 

 

For a brief moment, Ben thought he’d gone too far. Then in one fluid movement, Quinn rose to his feet and bent him backward in a kiss so hard stars danced behind his closed eyes. He yelped as Quinn threw him over his shoulder and headed for the stairs. 

 

Holy shit, thought Ben, I’ve poked the sleeping dragon. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn felt like the top of his head had blown off. One minute Ben was withdrawn, the next he was all over him, tearing at his clothing, then attacking his cock like a rabid beast. It was over in a matter of minutes.

 

And now the self-righteous little twerp had the nerve to mock him? He wasn’t about to let the whelp get away with it. Challenge *his* authority, would he? 

 

He rose to his feet, grabbing his trousers with one hand and somehow managing to refasten the waistband, simultaneously forcing Ben into a backbend and branding him with a kiss that made them both see stars. It wouldn’t do to look foolish with his pants around his ankles while teaching his insolent pup a lesson. 

 

Throwing Ben over his shoulder, ignoring the startled protests and frantic scrabbling along his back for purchase, he strode for the stairs.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn tossed Ben on the bed and silently dared him to move. Red-faced from hanging upside down, the lad lay still, green eyes wary, but unafraid. Good. Grudgingly respectful. Very good.

 

“Ye be needin’ a lesson in manners, boyo,” Quinn said harshly. He loomed over the bed, savoring the way Ben flinched, but didn’t move away. Those eyes… that mouth… God above, the things he wanted to do to him. All night long, until he begged for mercy. *And* promised to behave. 

 

He reached down and gripped the lad’s t-shirt. He’d have liked to rip it off, but settled for twisting it in his fist and lowering his face to inches from Ben’s. “Get undressed. *Now.* And hurry it up.” He let go and stepped back to watch.

 

Ben slowly pulled the shirt over his head. There was a ferocity in his eyes that fired Quinn’s blood. Then Ben tossed the top aside and laid back on the bed, pillowing his head on his folded arms. Defying him *still*. 

 

“Last chance, laddie,” Quinn growled. “I dinna tell ye to stop.” He peeled his own shirt off and let it drop to the floor. The pants and boxers followed and were kicked away. “Now get goin’.”

 

The green eyes glittered in the light of the bedside table lamp. “Make me,” Ben whispered. Then he *smiled* up at Quinn, a feral grin that left no doubt of his intentions.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben hardly believed his own daring. Quinn typically initiated their sexual encounters, but a week’s worth of mental images of Adele in Quinn’s arms, of Quinn in Adele’s bed were driving him on like a whiplash. 

 

The look in the cerulean eyes warned him he was on thin ice, but he didn’t care. His lips peeled back in a devil-may-care grin as he sprawled across the bedspread, naked from the waist up. His nipples hardened in the chill of the room, and his cock strained at his jeans. He’d never felt more alive. 

 

Though from the look on Quinn’s face, he might not survive the night.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The bloody little-

 

Quinn pounced on the lithe form on his bed, grabbing the jeans concealing that which rightfully belonged to him. He heard Ben’s surprised grunt as he grappled with the stiff denim. Damned American manufacturers… 

 

There was a loud pop as the button on the waistband flew across the room, followed by a tearing sound as he ripped the zipper down and jerked the pants off. Ben cried out, but refused to give quarter, gripping handfuls of the bedspread. So beautiful in the lamplight. Cheeks flushed. Lips swollen, eyes shooting daggers at him. He was Quinn’s, by right of conquest. Damn anyone who tried to come between them.

 

“Ye’re a feckin’ pain in the arse,” he muttered, as he ripped the briefs off as well, then buried his face in Ben’s groin, greedily inhaling the musky scent of his arousal. His hands slid underneath to cup the luscious ass and hold him in place, and Ben groaned. “Ye be wantin’ to challenge me, brat? Ye’ve brought this on yerself, and no mistake.” He nipped and mouthed the cock, the balls, scratching the tender skin with his beard, relishing the moans and sighs from the head of the bedstead. When Ben tried to reach for him, he pinned the slim wrists in one big hand, raising his head just enough to growl a warning. His Celtic blood was boiling, and he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to. 

 

He stretched out between Ben’s legs, licking, biting, drinking in the younger man’s passion, ruthlessly grinding his own arousal into the bedspread. Then he rose to his knees, watching in grim satisfaction as Ben’s wild-eyed gaze locked on the blood-red cock jutting from his groin. The lad sobbed, straining to free himself from Quinn’s punishing grip. Good. Very good. 

 

But not quite good enough.

 

“Ye want it bad, don’ ye,” he crooned softly. “Sure, and ye’ll be gettin’ it soon enough, boyo. But on *my* terms, not yers, ye ken? Nod if ye understand me.”

 

Ben nodded. “Please, Quinn,” he whimpered brokenly. 

 

Quinn free hand languidly stroked his own erection. “Please, Quinn, what?” he replied, glorying in the way the lad’s eyes tracked his every move. “Tell me what ye’re wantin’. I want to hear it from yer own mouth.”

 

“You,” Ben sobbed. “Just you. *Please*…”

 

“Nae good enough,” Quinn rebuked, lightly smacking Ben’s hip. “Tell me exactly what ye want me to do t’ ye. Be *specific*. If I like what I hear, then maybe I’ll do it. If not, I may just let ye lie there and pant yer life away.” He could hardly believe his own words, but somehow he knew he couldn’t back down. They had to play this little farce out to the end.

 

Judging from his dilated pupils and rapid breathing, Ben was likely beyond any power of cogent speech or thought. But he managed to choke out a few words. It was enough.

 

Quinn flipped him over onto his stomach. The pale ass was a sculpted masterpiece. He tugged until the lad was on his knees, then shoved his head down onto his folded arms. Grabbing a pillow, Quinn pushed it under Ben’s hips, then reached for the tube of lubricant on the bedside table. Liberally coating his fingers with the slippery gel, he inserted first one, then two into the tight opening, relishing Ben’s guttural moans as he found his prostate and raked across it once, twice, three times. Then, unable to wait any longer, he positioned himself and thrust inside, forcing himself to go slowly, as much to prevent injury as to prolong their mutual satisfaction. He felt Ben’s anal muscles tightening around him – so good, so hot, so damned *tight* -- and pressed forward until he was fully sheathed. Ben ground back against him, using his arms for leverage. They quickly found a rhythm and Quinn drove into him again and again, feeling his own passion rapidly spiraling upward. Ben was groaning and fisting the bedclothes under him, babbling incoherently. The sensations were indescribable.

 

Pulling out, he turned Ben over onto his back again, needing to see his face. Thrusting his legs up until his knees nearly touched his shoulders, Quinn shoved back inside. Ben’s arms flailed, grasping for any part of Quinn he could reach. Quinn grabbed one of his hands and guided it to Ben’s own cock. Frantically fisting himself, Ben screamed as his climax took him over the edge. 

 

Quinn’s orgasm hit him hard, and he felt himself falling… falling…

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben woke up slowly, wincing as several sets of muscles complained. He’d been thoroughly used and abused last night, and had reveled in every minute of it. 

 

The morning after was a whole other story.

 

Quinn’s side of the bed was empty. So was the bathroom. Ben showered and shaved, feeling a bit more like himself, even as he catalogued the colorful bruises scattered over his torso and arms. Far from ashamed, he considered them badges of honor. *He’d* set the tone last night. He’d made Quinn dance to *his* tune. 

 

Even if he was paying for it this morning.

 

He pulled out clean underwear and socks from the drawer Quinn had set aside for him, then reached for his jeans lying in a heap on the floor. 

 

Holy shit. The zipper was ripped half out of its seams, and the button was gone from the waistband altogether. Much of the previous night was a blur, after Quinn had literally thrown him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and carried him off. He recalled being tossed on the bed and roughly undressed, then attacked with hands, mouth and body. It was as if a dark stranger had taken over the man he loved. It *should* have scared the shit out of him. Instead, he’d begged for more, until both men had collapsed from sheer exhaustion.

 

The stonewashed jeans Quinn had given him were in the drawer, along with the cream sweater and striped button-down shirt. He debated, then pulled on an Academy sweatshirt he’d left behind a few weeks earlier. Cashmere didn’t belong in a car shop. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn was seated at the breakfast bar, reading the newspaper. For someone who’d spent the night rutting like an alley cat, he looked pretty damn good. Ben swallowed a smirk, then winced slightly as he reached overhead for a glass and poured himself some juice. 

 

“Morning,” he said, sliding onto the vacant stool, and giving Quinn a casual peck on the cheek. 

 

“What’s funny?” Quinn asked, reaching for his mug of tea.

 

“Oh, nothing,” Ben said casually, picking up the sports section. Damned if he was going to bring the subject up first. “Sleep well?”

 

“I did. Yourself?” 

 

“Like a log. Anything interesting in the paper?”

 

“The usual.” Quinn put down the paper and stood. “Tea?” 

 

“No, thanks,” Ben said. “Want me to make breakfast?”

 

“We should probably get a move on, get the car over to the shop,” Quinn replied. “Doug closes at noon, and he wanted to give it a good going over while I was there to answer questions.”

 

Right. The shop. Followed by lunch with Adele. Maybe he should have put the cashmere on after all. A reminder. A talisman. “Okay.” He gulped down the rest of his juice. “Let’s go.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

The ride to the shop was passed largely in silence. The Jag seemed to be running just fine, to Ben’s way of thinking, but he was no expert on foreign cars. American muscle cars, on the other hand…

 

Which reminded him painfully again of the Mustang. His dream machine. Gone. He could have had her for sixty-five hundred dollars. It would have been something to do on the weekends, once…

 

No, freeze. Don’t go there.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Adele’s maroon Peugeot was in the parking lot when they arrived. Even casually dressed in slacks and a silk blouse, she radiated elegance and class. “Bonjour, mes amis,” she called. “Is it not a lovely morning?”

 

“Bonjour, jolie,” Quinn responded, kissing her on the cheek. She smiled at Ben and held out her hand. He raised it to his lips, and she actually blushed. It made him grin, in spite of himself. Especially after last night…

 

The mechanic walked outside. “Morning, Doc. How’s my baby?”

 

Ben looked confused, and Quinn smiled. “Doug feels rather a proprietary interest in the Jag, Ben. He’s been caring for it almost as long as I’ve had it. Doug, this is Ben Kensington. Ben, Doug Franklin. He owns the shop.”

 

“Hi, Ben,” Doug said easily. “Come on in. I’ve got coffee and donuts inside. And good morning to you, Miss Adele. You’re looking lovely as ever.”

 

“Merci, Monsieur Doug,” Adele said, fluttering her eyelashes. She linked her arm in Ben’s and drew him to the main entrance. “Viens, Ben, let us leave these two to their tinkering. I am in desperate need of a donut.”

 

Ben had little choice but to allow himself to be led into the lobby. The coffee smelled good, and the donuts were fresh. He and Adele made small talk, and he marveled at her composure. The man they both desired was on the other side of the door, and she was talking about where they’d go to lunch. 

 

Quinn entered from the service area. “Ben, could you come out here for a minute, please? Doug’s trying to explain something about the engine, and you know how uninformed I am on such matters. Sounds serious.”

 

“Sure,” Ben said, following him back out into the garage. Doug was poking under the Jag’s hood, tweaking wires and muttering. Quinn looked apprehensive, much the same as when Ben was repairing something in the bio lab.

 

“Yep, thought so,” Doug was saying. “Gonna need to keep her overnight, Doc. But don’t worry, she’ll be okay. Just a little minor surgery.”

 

“Oh, dear,” Quinn said. “What’s it going to run me this time?”

 

“Hard to say,” Doug said, scratching the back of his head. “But I’ll be sure to give you the family discount.” He grinned. “’Course, I’m always open to a bit of a trade,” the mechanic went on, with a sly grin in Ben’s general direction. “Maybe we can work something out.”

 

“You’re a shyster of the first order, Douglas Franklin,” Quinn said reprovingly. “What is it this time?”

 

“Well, I’ve got this service bay needs clearin’ out,” Doug said, jerking his chin toward the far side of the shop. “Been meaning to get somebody in to do something about it. Now this guy,” gesturing to Ben, “looks like he’s got plenty of energy. Think he’d be willing to help me out?” 

 

“I’m not a mechanic,” Ben protested. “I work on computers, not Jaguars.” 

 

“Well now, I hear tell you’re pretty knowledgeable about cars,” Doug drawled, and Ben heard a distinctly feminine giggle behind him. He turned, surprised to see Adele standing next to Quinn. Both looked extremely pleased with themselves. He was starting to smell a rat…

 

“Go on, Ben,” Quinn urged him. “Maybe you can pick up a few tricks from the master.”

 

Ben scowled, but followed Doug over to the bay. It was good-sized, with racks on the wall holding various tools, and a stack of tires in the back corner. And something under a black tarp…

 

“Like muscle cars, Ben?” Doug asked, with a grin.

 

~*~*~*~

 

It was the Mustang. *His* Mustang. He stared, wanting to pinch himself. What the hell was she doing here?

 

Quinn stepped up behind him. “Surprise,” he said softly, draping an arm across Ben’s shoulders. Adele stood beside him, eyes shining. 

 

“I don’t- what- how-” Ben stammered, afraid to look away. 

 

“Go on,” Quinn urged. “Check it out.”

 

Doug pulled the tarp off and Ben reverently touched the dented hood. He ran his hand up the fender, then down over the headlights, both surprisingly intact. She was really here. But how-

 

“I think he’s in love, Doc,” Doug said, with a grin.

 

“I’m certain of it,” Quinn agreed. Adele clapped her hands, excited as a child on Christmas morning.

 

Ben walked slowly around the chassis, trying to take it all in. Then he looked up at Doug. “How much?” he asked.

 

“For what?” Ben nodded at the car. “Oh, well, you gotta talk to the Doc here. She ain’t mine. I’m just boarding her, kind of.”

 

Ben turned to Quinn, green eyes suspicious. “What did you do?”

 

“Nothing I’m fairly sure you weren’t prepared to do on your own,” Quinn said, with a shrug. He reached into his jacket and handed Ben a sealed envelope. “I hope you’ll be pleased.”

 

Inside was a sales receipt for thirty-two hundred and fifty dollars, and the title to the car. In Ben’s name. He stared. “You’re *shitting* me.”

 

Adele laughed. “Je te l’ai dit, Quinn! Is he not the most wonderful negotiator, Ben? I could not believe it either when he told me.”

 

“When he… told you?” Ben stammered, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that his car was there only a few feet away from him, at *half* the asking price. A price he’d been ready to pay, no questions asked, and over which he’d been kicking himself ever since he’d found her gone. 

 

“Naturellement,” Adele replied, her blue eyes sparkling. “He came to my office Wednesday morning. He could hardly contain himself.”

 

“Damned good buy, too,” Doug chimed in. “She’s a beauty, Ben. Serves Barton right, the little pissant. Sorry, Miss Adele.” Doug shook his head. “That little varmit’s been ripping people off for years. Dunno what the Doc dug up on him, but it must have worked.”

 

“Me, neither,” Ben muttered, with a look at Quinn that clearly said they’d discuss it later. An answering nod confirmed message received.

 

“And now you can go to the DMV and get that heap of scrap metal registered, God help me,” Quinn added, with a grin. “I am officially washing my hands of the entire affair.” 

 

Ben pulled out the title again, and a small square of paper fell to the floor. He picked it up. A receipt for a gift subscription to a popular muscle-car magazine. From Adele. Dated last Tuesday. “Merci, Madame,” he said, embarrassed that he’d apparently misjudged her. Again.

 

“De rien, mon cher ami,” she answered, eyes twinkling. “It was such fun, plotting how to get you here without, how do you say, letting le chat out of the bag.” 

 

“You’re a pair of devils,” Ben said, with a shaky laugh. “But thank you, both of you. This is fantastic.”

 

“Ready for some lunch? Or should we just leave you to bond with your new girlfriend?” Quinn teased. Ben’s stomach rumbled. “Thought so. Feed me, jolie; I’m starving. Come on, Ben. She’ll be here when you get back, I promise.” He winked at Doug, who grinned and nodded.

 

“She’s safe as houses, Ben,” he affirmed. “The Doc’s rented out the bay so you can work on her. He pulled a key out of his coverall and handed it to Ben. “This’ll get you in. Just lock up when you leave if I’m not here.”

 

“Thank- thank you, Mr. Franklin. That’s unbelievably generous of you,” Ben began, but Doug waved him off.

 

“I’m Doug, Ben. Nobody calls me anything else, lessen they’re after me for something. Been knowing these two a long time. If the Doc says you’re good for it, that’s enough for me.” He turned to Quinn. “The Jag just needs an oil change and filter. I’ll lock her up and you can pick her up Monday, okay?”

 

“Fine. Ready, Ben? I think he wants to close up. Kiss your lady love goodbye and let’s go get something to eat, before I expire from hunger.” Quinn dramatically pressed his hand to his heart and pretended to stagger as Adele solicitously guided him back to the parking lot. He could hear them congratulating each other on the success of their little ploy.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Following a reviving lunch and a brief stop at the local Barnes & Noble for a bagful of muscle car research materials, Adele dropped them at the brownstone. Ben was still reeling, and Quinn was too smug for words. He closed the front door and leaned against it, grinning like a Cheshire Cat. 

 

“All right,” Ben sighed, heading into the living room. “How’d you do it? Is the FBI going to come knocking? Please tell me you at least buried the body where no one will find it.”

 

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Quinn said, settling into his easy chair. “Are you complaining about the result?”

 

“No, ‘course not, but I still want to know what happened. Even Doug said you must have blackmailed Barton. I mean, come on, Quinn, thirty-two hundred dollars? Which I am repaying first thing Monday morning, as soon as the bank opens.”

 

Quinn nodded. “Fine. But as for how I did it, well, haggling is an art. And I’ve had years of practice.” He grinned. “Knowledge is power.”

 

Ben sat down on the ottoman and pulled Quinn’s legs across his lap. “Tell me.”

 

“Well, he did have a nice bit of a botanical amidst all those weeds,” Quinn remarked, as he packed his pipe. “Naturally, it piqued my interest.”

 

“A ‘botanical,’” Ben repeated slowly. “Not buying it, sorry.”

 

“Why, it’s the gospel truth! *And* the man was in need of funds. Apparently he’s not a very good businessman. You heard Doug.” He told Ben about his research. “Just don’t ask me to deal with Mrs. Barton’s cooking again. That was, hands down, the worst apple pie I’ve ever tasted. And I *loathe* buttermilk.” He shook his head. “The things a man will do for love.”

 

Ben couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re such a martyr. So what exactly was this ‘botanical’ you found? Some rare exotic plant that you’re going to transplant back to the Academy greenhouse?” Ben asked, massaging Quinn’s right knee over the surgical scar. 

 

“Nothing like. But it’s funny you mentioned the Feds. Barton had a rather fine crop of cannabis growing out there. Been there for years, from the look of it. I simply suggested he… rectify the situation.” 

 

Ben stared. “*Cannabis*? You mean-”

 

“Exactly.” The blue eyes gleamed.

 

“Holy shit. And you used it to bring down the price?”

 

“I would have.” Quinn chuckled. “Turns out it wasn’t necessary. But I didn’t want Doug to get in trouble when he picked the car up. And now you are free to drive yourself into bankruptcy fixing it up. No pun intended.”

 

Ben moved Quinn’s legs to the floor, then slid into his lap. “Thank you,” he said softly, kissing the bearded lips. 

 

“You’re welcome, love,” Quinn answered. “And it’s glad I am to see you more like yourself today. Last night was a bit… worrisome.”

 

Ben ducked his head, ashamed now of his earlier distrust. “Yeah, about that. I acted like a total shit, and-”

 

“We neither of us were exactly ourselves,” Quinn said, stroking Ben’s hair. Ben leaned into the caress. “Not saying parts of it weren’t… pleasurable, mind you.” He grinned, and Ben chuckled.

 

“I don’t remember hearing you complain.”

 

“Far from it,” Quinn agreed. “As long as you’re okay. Things got a wee bit rough last night.” He pushed Ben’s sleeves up and gingerly touched the bruises on his wrists. “Oh, shite, Ben. Does the rest of ye look this bad?”

 

“Worse,” Ben said proudly. “And I’m fine, really,” he assured his anxious lover, leaning in for another kiss. Quinn’s arms around him felt wonderful, but he knew he needed to clear the air. “Quinn,” he said softly, sitting up to look in the troubled blue eyes. “I owe you and Adele an apology. I- I misjudged both of you.”

 

“How so?” Quinn asked quietly. 

 

“I came to Adele’s office Tuesday morning, to drop off a book she’d loaned me. I opened the door, and… oh, shit. This is embarrassing.”

 

Quinn sighed. “You heard us talking about the car.” It wasn’t a question.

 

“I didn’t hear that part of it, no. Just the tail end, when she was hugging you, and-”

 

“And you assumed the worst.” Ben hung his head. “Oh, Ben. It’s sorry I am that you suffered for it, but must I sever all ties to be with you? Adele’s not your enemy. You know that. She was every bit as excited as I was over the car.”

 

“Yeah, I *do* know. And I tried to tell myself that there was a rational explanation, but… well, I acted like a total ass hat. I guess I’m still getting used to the idea of you and me as a couple. I mean, she’s been a part of your life for so long, and everybody talks about how you’ll be getting married any day now. I’ll… I’ll apologize to her. And I’ll take her for a ride when the ‘stang’s all fixed up.” He grinned. “Maybe I should name it after her.”

 

Quinn smiled. “That might be overkill, though I’m sure she’d appreciate the gesture.” Then he sobered. “Best not to anything, Ben. It’d only upset her.”

 

Ben nodded slowly. “I guess you’re right. But I’m glad I told you. And really, I’m over the moon about the car. I can’t believe you got it for so little. You should teach a seminar on the ‘Art of Cutthroat Negotiations’.” 

 

“God forbid!” Quinn snorted. “I’m not about to reveal my secrets. They might get used against me.” He pulled Ben to him and kissed his forehead. “But it’s pleased I am that I could help. Anyone could see how badly you wanted that hunk of junk.”

 

Ben smiled. “Well, you know what they say. One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” He reached down. “And this man’s junk is definitely a treasure.”

 

Quinn’s heartfelt groan was swallowed with a kiss.

 

~end~


End file.
